In Friendship's Guise eBook

He wondered if it could have anything to do with Diane,
as he set to work on the injured man. With deft
fingers he bathed the cut, staunched the blood, and
applied a piece of plaster handed to him by a bystander;
over it he placed the dry half of his handkerchief.

“You’ll do now,” he said. “It’s
not a deep cut.”

With assistance the man got to his feet. The
shock had sobered him, and he was pretty steady.
He pulled his cap on his head, and winced with pain
as it stirred the bandage.

“Where’s the cowardly rat what hit me?”
he demanded.

“Never you mind about ’im,” put
in the proprietor of the club—­a very fat
man with a ponderous watch-chain. “While
the excitement was on ’e ’ooked it.
You be off, too—­I don’t want any more
rowing.” Sinking his voice to a faint whisper,
he added: “You’d be worse off than
the rest of us, ’Awker, should the police ’appen
to come.”

“Yes, go home, my good fellow,” urged
Jack. “You look ill; and what you need
is rest. You’ll be all right in the morning.”

He pressed half a sovereign into the man’s hand—­so
cleverly that none observed the action—­and
then slipped back and joined Nevill and Mostyn, who
had a slight acquaintance with each other. The
three had left the room, and were going downstairs,
before Mr. Noah Hawker recovered from his surprise
on learning that his gift was gold instead of a silver
sixpence. It chanced that he was reduced to his
last coppers, and so the half sovereign was a boon
indeed. He nudged the elbow of a supercilious
looking young gentleman in evening dress who was passing.

“That swell cove who fixed me up—­he’s
just gone,” he said. “He’s a
real gent, he is! Could you tell me his name,
sir?”

“Aw, yes, I think I can,” was the drawling
reply. “He’s an artist chap, don’t
you know! Name of Vernon.”

“Might it be John Vernon?”

“That’s it, my man.”

The name rang in Noah Hawker’s ears, and he
repeated it to himself as he stumbled downstairs.
He was in such a brown study that he forgot to tip
the door-keeper who let him into the street. He
pulled his cap lower to hide his bandaged head, and
struck off in the direction of Tottenham Court road.

“Funny how I run across that chap!” he
reflected. “Vernon—­John Vernon—­yes,
it’s the same, no doubt about it. But he’s
only an artist, and I know what artists are.
There’s many on ’em, with claw-hammer coats
and diamonds in their shirt-fronts, as hasn’t
got two quid to knock together. You won’t
suit my book, Mr. Vernon—­you’re not
in the running against the others. It’s
a pity, though, for he was a real swell, what I call
a gent. But I’ll keep him in mind, and it
sort of strikes me I’ll be able to do him a
good turn some day.”

Meanwhile, as Noah Hawker walked northward in the
direction of Kentish Town, Jack and his companions
had reached Piccadilly Circus. Here Mostyn left
them, while Jack and Nevill went down Regent street.